Chapter 19  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 

The Comte de la Roche had just finished déjeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes, an entrec?te Bearnaise, and a Savarin au Rhum. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately with his table napkin, the Comte rose from the table. He passed through the salon of the villa, noting with appreciation the few objets d'art which were carelessly scattered about. The Louis XV snuff-box, the satin shoe worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other historic trifles were part of the Comte's mise en scene. They were, he would explain to his fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing through on to the terrace, the Comte looked out on the Mediterranean with an unseeing eye. He was in no mood for appreciating the beauties of scenery. A fully matured scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his plans had to be cast afresh. Stretching himself out in a basket chair, a cigarette held between his white fingers, the Comte pondered deeply. 

Presently Hippolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs. The Comte selected some very fine old brandy. 

As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight gesture. Hippolyte stood respectfully to attention. 

His countenance was hardly a prepossessing one, but the correctitude of his demeanour went far to obliterate the fact. 

He was now the picture of respectful attention. 

"It is possible," said the Comte, "that in the course of the next few days various strangers may come to the house. They will endeavour to scrape acquaintance with you and with Marie. They will probably ask you various questions concerning me." 

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte." 

"Perhaps this has already happened?" 

"No, Monsieur le Comte." 

"There have been no strangers about the place? You are certain?" 

"There has been no one, Monsieur le Comte." 

"That is well," said the Comte drily, "nevertheless they will come - I am sure of it. They will ask questions." 

Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation. 

The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hippolyte. 

"As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday morning. If the police or any other inquirer should question you, do not forget that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th - not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?" 

"Perfectly, Monsieur le Comte." 

"In an affair where a lady is concerned, it is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hippolyte, that you can be discreet." 

"I can be discreet, Monsieur." 

"And Marie?" 

"Marie also. I will answer for her." 

"That is well then," murmured the Comte. 

When Hippolyte had withdrawn, the Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it - into the midst of these cogitations came Hippolyte once more. 

"A lady, Monsieur." 

"A lady?" 

The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Comte could not think who the lady was likely to be. 

"She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur," murmured the valet helpfully. 

The Comte was more and more intrigued. 

"Show her out here, Hippolyte," he commanded. 

A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out on the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms. 

"Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?" 

"At your service, Mademoiselle," said the Comte, bowing. 

"My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me." 

"Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!" 

The dancer acknowledged this compliment with a brief 

mechanical smile. 

"My descent upon you is unceremonious," she began. 

"But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle," cried the Comte, bringing forward a chair. 

Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle's class, who were themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts, the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that the Comte could recognize infallibly when he saw it. He knew at once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent, and is occasionally a source of profit to a level-headed gentleman who keeps cool. 

"It is most amiable of you, Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus." 

"We have mutual friends in Paris," said Mirelle. "I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you today for another reason. I have heard of you since I came to Nice - in a different way, you understand." 

"Ah?" said the Comte softly. 

"I will be brutal," continued the dancer, "nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering." 

"I - the murderer of Madame Kettering? Pah! But how absurd!" 

He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further. 

"But yes," she insisted, "it is as I tell you." 

"It amuses people to talk," murmured the Comte indifferently. "It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously." 

"You do not understand." Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police." 

"The police - ah?" 

The Comte sat up, alert once more. 

Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times. 

"Yes, yes. You comprehend me - I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself -" 

She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders. 

"Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?" murmured the Count politely. 

"The police believe that you killed Mrs Kettering. But they are wrong." 

"Certainly they are wrong," agreed the Comte easily. 

"You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do." 

The Comte looked at her curiously. 

"You know who killed Madame Kettering? Is that what you would say, Mademoiselle?" 

Mirelle nodded vehemently. 

"Yes." 

"Who was it?" asked the Comte sharply. 

"Her husband." She bent nearer to the Comte, speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement. "It was her husband who killed her." 

The Comte leant back in his chair. His face was a mask. 

"Let me ask you, Mademoiselle - how do you know this?" 

"How do I know it?" Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. "He boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only the death of his wife could save him. He told me so. He travelled on the same train - but she was not to know it. Why was that, I ask you? So that he might creep upon her in the night - Ah! -

" she shut her eyes - "I can see it happening..." 

The Count coughed. 

"Perhaps - perhaps," he murmured. "But surely, Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?" 

"The jewels!" breathed Mirelle. "The jewels. Ah! Those rubies..." 

Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex. He recalled her to practical matters. 

"What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?" 

Mirelle became alert and businesslike once more. 

"Surely it is simple. You will go to the police. You will say to them that M. Kettering committed this crime." 

"And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?" He was eyeing her closely. 

Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round her. 

"Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte," she said softly, "I will give them the proof they want." 

Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished. 

The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows delicately raised. 

"She is in a fury," he murmured. "What has happened now to upset her? But she shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr Kettering killed his wife? She would like me to believe it. She would even like the police to believe it." 

He smiled to himself. He had no intention whatsoever of going to the police. He saw various other possibilities; to judge by his smile, an agreeable vista of them. 

Presently, however, his brow clouded. According to Mirelle, he was suspected by the police. That might be true or it might not. 

An angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about the strict veracity of her statements. On the other hand, she might easily have obtained inside information. 

In that case - his mouth set grimly - in that case he must take certain precautions. 

He went into the house and questioned Hippolyte closely once more as to whether any strangers had been to the house. The valet was positive in his assurances that this was not the case. The Comte went up to his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the wall. He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought a spring at the back of one of the pigeonholes. 

A secret drawer flew out; in it was a small brown paper package. The Comte took this out and weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two. Raising his hand to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair. This he placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten minutes later he had taken the road for Monte Carlo. 

He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town. Presently he reentered the car and drove off in the direction of Mentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little distance behind him. He noticed it again now. He smiled to himself. The road was climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot pressed hard on the 

accelerator. The little red car had been specially built to the Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from its appearance. It shot ahead. 

Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver. 

Now they were going downhill, twisting and curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to a standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the Comte was drinking English five o'clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels. 

Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once more at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed face. 

"Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone me, by any chance?" 

The Comte shook his head. 

"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte, to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco." 

"Really," said the Comte, "and you went?" 

"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur le Comte - he had not been there." 

"Ah" said the Comte, "doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her afternoon marketing?" 

"That is so, Monsieur le Comte." 

"Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no importance. A mistake." 

He went upstairs, smiling to himself. 

Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round. Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself. 

Things had been replaced almost exactly as he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough search had been made. 

He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded his head several times. 

"They are excellent, our French police," he murmured to himself - 

"excellent. Nothing escapes them." 

第十九章 不速之客

    罗歇伯爵刚刚吃完精选的早点，他用餐巾擦擦小黑胡子站了起来。他在大厅里踱着步，以惬意的神态和精力充沛的眼光看着大厅里的几件古玩：路易十五（法国皇帝。译注）的鼻烟壶，玛丽·安托瓦内特（法国王后，路易十六的妻子。译注）穿过的沙丁鱼鞋，还有一些其它的历史文物。伯爵是一位非常好的自我导演，他经常向自己的女观众介绍说，这些都是大家族的遗物。他走到阳台上，遥望着大海。不，他今天心情不太好，一个周密的计划彻底失败了，他又得从头开始。他坐在藤椅上，手指挟着香烟，深思起来。

    伊波利特，他的佣人，送来一杯咖啡和一杯上等的露酒。伯爵大人喝着一八八四年法国科涅克地方产的白兰地酒。当仆人要离去的时候，伯爵轻轻地打着手势让他留下。

伊波利特站在那里，听候着主人的吩咐。

    “最近几天，”伯爵说，“可能有人来访。也可能有人向你打听关于我的事情。”

    “是，伯爵先生。”

    “在这之前有过这种事吗？”

    “没有，伯爵先生。”

    “真的没有？”

    “谁也没有来过。”

    “可是，一定会有人来，而且会向你问起我的事。听着！正象你所知道的那样，我是在星期三早晨来到这里的。但是，如果是警察或是其它什么人高你问起，你就说我是十四号星期二到达这里的，而不是十五号星期三来的，懂吗？”

    “完全懂，伯爵先生。”

    “我知道，你一向很谨慎，伊波利特。”

    “我会这样的，仁慈的先生。”

    “那么玛丽呢？”

    “玛丽也会这样，我为她担保。”

    “那好。”伯爵低声说道。

    伊波利特走出之后，他开始喝浓咖啡，时而紧皱眉头，时而摇摇头，时而又点点头。

伊波利特再次回到了房间，打断了他的深思。

    “有一个女士找您，仁慈的先生。”

    “一个女士？”

    到玛丽娅别墅来访的女士是很多的，但今天早晨伯爵事先却不知道有任何一个女士来访。

    “这位女士不是先生的熟人。”伊波利特向他报告道。

    “把她带进来吧，伊波利特。”

    过了一会儿，进来一位衣着是桔黄色和黑色打扮的女士，浑身散发着香水味。

    “您就是罗歇伯爵？”

    “愿意为您效劳。”他深鞠一躬，说道。

    “我就是米蕾，您可能听说过我。”

    “当然，小姐，谁不欣赏您的舞蹈艺术呢！”

    舞女勉强地笑着回答了这一恭维。

    “请原谅我来打扰您。”

    “不，我感到荣幸，您请坐。”伯爵说着拉过一把藤椅。

    伯爵透过面纱仔细地端详着她。他是很了解女人的，但是，除了他那个阶层的女人之外，比如说舞女，他却了解得很少。他和米蕾应该说是同行，但是，他那操纵女性的本领这时却没有得到发挥。她是个十分狡黠的巴黎女人。但是有一点他是看出来了：米蕾十分激动。激动的妇女一般都容易说漏嘴。她可能有一件极为平常而又经过冷静思考过的事，从中可能得到的一些好处会改善他的处境。

    “我们俩在巴黎都有熟人。”米蕾说：“他们对我谈了许多关于您的事。在尼扎也有许多人谈起过您，不过是用另外一种方式。”

    “是吗？”

    “恕我直言。”舞女继续说，“我要对您说的事，您听起来可能不大舒服。可是请您相信，我总是关心您的幸福的，现在尼扎的人都在议论说，您就是杀死凯特林女士的凶手。”

    “我！？我是杀死凯特林女士的凶手？荒唐！”

    他的声音听起来有些激动。他认为，这是从她的嘴里探听虚实的最好方法。

    “可是，人们就是这样认为！”

    “上帝啊！人们总是喜欢造谣生事。”伯爵无动于衷地说道。“如果我要认真来对待这些谣言，那就有损于我的尊严。”

    “您理解错了。”米蕾弯下腰，她那双黑眼睛闪着光。“这不只是一种闲话。您知道是谁提起了起诉吗？是警察局！”

    “警察局？”

    伯爵猛然站起来，十分紧张。

    米蕾满意地连连点着头。“是的，是警察局！您知道，到处都有我的朋友，甚至有的官员……”她耸了一下肩，没有说完她的话。

    “谁能在一个美人面前不泄漏机密呢？”伯爵低声说道。

    “警察局方面的意见是：您弄死了凯特林女士。可是，警察局弄错了。”

    “当然弄错了。”伯爵完全同意她的说法。

    “您只是这样说说而已，但不知内情，我是知道内情的。”

    伯爵惊奇地看着她。

    “您知道凯特林女士是谁杀害的？”

    米蕾快活地点着头。

    “是的。”

    “那么，是谁？”

    “是她自己的丈夫。”她又弯下腰低声说，由于激动和气愤，声音有点颤抖。“是她的男人害死了她。”

    伯爵向后一仰，脸上浮出一层疑云。

    “请允许我冒昧地打听一下，小姐，您是怎么知道的？”

    “我是怎么知道的？”米蕾跳起来放声大笑，笑声令人毛骨悚然。“他早就谋划这件事了情。他那时两手空空，债台高筑，没有遗产。只有老婆的死才能使他得救。这是他亲自对我说的。所以，他乘了同一次车去尼扎，当然不让她知道。为什么要这样？我问自己。原来是为了在深夜去袭击自己的老婆！”她闭了双眼，“我亲眼看见了这场好戏。”

    伯爵神秘地咳了一声。

    “可是，一切都是可能的，”他低声说。“但是，完全没有必要在这种情况下把宝石偷走。”

    “宝石，”她长叹了一声，“宝石啊，这块宝石！”

    她的双眼蒙在面纱里射出两道奇异的光。伯爵惊讶地看着她。在伯爵过去的岁月里，他上百次发现宝石在女人身上所起的神奇作用。这次宝石也把米蕾带到了现实生活中。

    “那么要我做些什么事呢，小姐？”

    “事情很简单。您到警察局去对他们说，是凯特林先生作的案。”

    “那么人们会相信我吗？如果他们让我拿出证据呢？”

    米蕾低声笑着，把自己紧紧裹在斗篷里。

    “那你就让警察到我这里来，”她轻声说：“我给他们证据。”

    这个怪僻的女人完成了她的使命。她一阵风似地走出了房间，哐啷一声门在她身后关上了。

    伯爵一面摇着头，一面凝望着她走去的方向。

    “这是一个疾恶如仇的泼妇。”他喃喃自语说着，“是什么使她这么气愤呢？她真相信，凯特林杀死了自己的老婆？总而言之，她想使我和警察都相信这一点。”

    他微笑了一下。决不！再到警察局去一趟？他连丝毫的兴趣都没有。他之所以暗自发笑，有其得意的理由。

    可是，他的脸部立即又蒙上了一层阴影。米蕾说，警察局怀疑他。当然不能排除这种可能性，这个女人一定掌握着可靠的第一手材料。他的嘴边涌起了一丝坚定的皱纹，如果是这样，他就应该采取一定的措施。

    伯爵上楼走进自己的卧室，打开写字台的抽屉。他轻轻的摸着抽屉里的一个固定弹簧。这时跳出一个秘密的灰色木盒。他打开盒子，从中取出一个小包拿在手上掂量了几下。然后他拨下一根头发放在盒子边上，又把盒子放回原处。他手提着小包下楼走到了汽车棚，那里停放着他的深红色的双座小汽车。五分钟之后他开着车来到通往蒙特卡洛的公路上。

    他在卡西诺饭店度过了几个小时，然后在市里兜风。他把车开上了去往门托的公路。

还在这之前，他就发现有一辆灰色的汽车时隐时现地跟踪着他。此时这辆车又出现在他的后面。公路一直是上坡。伯爵加大油门，这辆为他特制的双座小汽车有四个马力很大的汽缸，汽车正以全速飞驰。

    灰色的汽车还是跟踪着他。伯爵全速驾驶着，他是个高级司机。现在正是下坡，蛇形的公路曲折蜿蜒，急转弯一个接着一个。在一个小邮局的前面他突然刹住了车。他跳下车来打开后备箱，取出小灰盒，急忙进了邮局。两分钟后，他又回到了车上。驱车驶向门托。当灰色小汽车来到时，伯爵已经在一座豪华的饭店内安详地喝着午饭后的热茶了。

    傍晚，他又回到蒙特卡洛，在那里吃了晚饭，将近十一点时回到了家。伊波利特开门迎接他，心神有些惶惶然。

    “啊！太好了，伯爵先生又回来了。伯爵先生，您今天给我打过电话吗？”

    伯爵摇了摇头。

    “下午三点的时候我接到伯爵先生的电话，让我到尼扎的内格列斯库饭店去接您。”

    “噢，噢！”伯爵说，“那么你当然就去了？”

    “当然，先生，但是内格列斯库饭店的人谁都不知道您曾到过那里。”

    “玛丽这个时候当然在外面采购，准备晚饭喽？”

    “是的，伯爵先生。”

    “算了吧！”伯爵说，“没什么，只是个误会。”

    他说完就上了楼。

    进了卧室，他反锁上门，仔细查看着周围。好象一切都如同平常一样。他找开所有的衣柜和抽屉，一切都似乎保持原样。但仅仅是“似乎“而已。他那敏锐的眼神立刻发现，整个屋子都被人搜查过了。

    他走到写字台跟前按了一下暗中的弹簧。秘密的盒子跳了出来，但是那一根头发却不在原处。他点了点头，一切都明白了。

    “我们这里该死的警察干得很出色嘛，”他低声自语道，“的确很出色，一切都逃不过他们的眼睛。”